


Overtime

by MechanicalHeart



Category: Control (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Shot, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalHeart/pseuds/MechanicalHeart
Summary: Everyone works late at the Oldest House. Most staff leaves at a more reasonable hour than Casper Darling, though.He sticks around, too submerged in his work to go home. He also waits for his director to stop by his office. But he would never admit that.
Relationships: Casper Darling/Zachariah Trench
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before having seen the game in its entirety so there may be major things I have missed or misunderstood.

When Dr. Casper Darling checked the time, the clock’s hands showed it was 01:13.  
The next time he checked they told him it was 02:12.

He had given up on regular office hours a long time ago. Just like the rest of the Bureau had. There had been weeks in which he was home for dinner every single working day. Back when he was new here. It felt like he had never been ‘new’ here, now. He couldn’t say he really missed anything about those days. Working for Northmoor. It had been okay, had been fine, even. Being able to eat something other than cheap Chinese takeout or stale, cardboard-esque pizzas after midnight had been nice; well, that is what he supposed. It had probably been nice. What _had_ he been eating, on those nights? Every time he asked himself that question, his mind returned to familiar alleys, like an old record returning to well-known grooves. The best thing he could come up with was what _other people_ ate. What regular folk was likely to enjoy come dinnertime. Spaghetti and meatballs. Sunday roast. Steak. Ribs with French fries. Thinking about those dishes he was so close to recognizing the full, rich smell of tomato sauce with oregano; could almost taste the salty, crispy fries. But he always came up short. He didn’t have any memories of eating them. Ever. No setting. No restaurants. No company. Not from his childhood, not from his teens. Not even more recent memories. Had it really been that long since he had last had a regular home-cooked dinner? Impossible. He was sure of it. There were notes, in his handwriting, scribbled in his old agendas and planners: ‘AFTERNOON OFF’, ’07:00 PM – […] steakhouse!’; even some sticky notes, all dusty, that had been under his desk for years: ‘pick up turkey at […] after work!!!’  
He just didn’t have any recollection of those things.  
  
That this was unusual, strange, even, was not lost on him. Many things in his workplace were, though. Memory loss was a pretty common occurrence. Dr. Darling had learned, after so many years, to see things in the right proportions: yes, losing one or more memories (could memories really be quantified that way? Maybe not) was bad, painful, maybe, but was it really a problem if a researcher at the Bureau couldn’t recall when or where he had last had a full evening meal? All things considered, not really. Not at all. It did not affect his cognitive abilities or his capability or even motivation to do his job. So? No problems.  
The Bureau was a place that functioned best during the nocturnal hours, anyway. It was only natural for its inhabitants to follow suit and adapt. Would you camp out in the Savannah to study the behavior of an alpaca? No, you would not.

But somewhere, somewhere hidden underneath his lab coat and his glasses and his eternal bowtie, even Dr. Darling was afflicted with that pesky genetic defect: human physiology. As the years passed and an increasing number of hairs on his head started to turn grey, it got worse. It was a tricky thing, treacherous; with a habit of creeping up on you and exposing itself when you are not expecting it.  
Casper Darling took his glasses in his hand and laid them on the table, next to his typewriter.  
“I can hardly see what I’m writing,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes. He was tired. He was old, and he was tired.  
Getting up from his chair he felt all the hours he had spent sitting in it, all the separate minutes, one by one, balled together in one big pile of discomfort. Slowly, he thought to himself, careful. If he hurt his back there was no way of knowing when he would be fit to work again. And the Bureau needed him. His boss needed him.  
He wanted some distance. Distance from the typed pages he had been staring at for so long. The letters seemed to move, form different words and different sentences. Dr. Darling guessed this was what dyslectics saw each time they tried to read. He pitied them, just for a moment- before the pity he felt for himself took its place.  
The text was an appendix to data. Numbers and graphs detailing the activity of a postcard the team suspected to be an object of power. Emily Pope had been working on it, which meant a steady supply of huge quantities of data, but obviously no guaranteed answers. Data was just that, data; no explanation or judgment. The pages of data in front of him showed an increased activity, measured by a magnetic device his team often used in similar experiments. It was their go-to device, nothing specific but rather the first in line, to eliminate a couple of hypotheses. They were only just beginning their study of the postcard. Initial data were very promising. There was a lot of magnetic activity, but more importantly, there were big differences in its pattern of magnetic activity. Sometimes the object was very much ‘on’, while other times it was practically unresponsive. Reading Emily’s explanation, it was safe to say the team had no idea why.

<<The object is a common postcard. Its front side displays a generic mountain view, with the Norse text ‘Jeg savner deg’ (English: ‘I miss you’) in italic font on its lower right side. Topographical research suggested the pictured mountain is located in the south of Norway; local responders in Norway confirmed that it is the Glittertind (2.452 m / 8.045 ft). The card’s backside has a stamp from the major post office nearest to the Glittertind, suggesting it was sorted in municipality […].  
The addressee’s address is so smudged it is impossible to make out what it once said but we have reason to believe the card was sent to an address on US soil. It was retrieved from a library in […], where it had been tucked in a novel: […]  
This novel had been borrowed and returned many times, but not recently; the last person to return it had done so on February 27th, 2004.  
Library staff, following their policy to dispose of foreign items in their books, attempted to throw out the postcard. The object kept returning to the book. Library staff contacted the Bureau on March 19th, 2004. The item was seized the next day.  
Following up, the Bureau contacted the last person who had borrowed the book, Mr. […] of […]. He claims he had received the postcard in question approximately two years ago and had been unable to get rid of it, having tried ‘tearing’, ‘burning’, ‘chemical dissolution’, etc. (refer to file […] for a comprehensive list). He states that the address was smudged upon reception. He emphasizes he does not know anyone in Norway. It remains unclear how and why it ended up in his possession. Looking to remove it from his home he confesses to putting it inside a library book and leaving the book.  
Investigations continue.>>

The attached data was suggestive. Emily had made a couple of annotations.  
‘Object’s resonance seems to ‘wake up’ when magnetizing tool is employed by Hubert. Its activity level grows and reaches a peak of […]’  
‘This does NOT happen when tool is employed by Carla’  
‘REASON??? MORE RESEARCH NEEDED! (e.g. different time of day, different testing room, third researcher running the test?)’

“I don’t know, Emily,” Dr. Darling sighed. Maybe it was best to leave the philosophizing for tomorrow. He walked over to the whiteboard. It was a bit easier to read than the typed paper, or a screen. He stood there for a while, hands in the pockets of his whitecoat. He was a living, breathing stereotype of a scientist deep in complicated thought. Reality was very different. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. Sometimes, just looking at his research team’s work was enough to feel better about himself, to feel accomplished, somewhat.  
There were footsteps, some distance behind him. They were dragging a bit, sliding over the linoleum. The floors in the Bureau were always squeaky clean. Strongly reduced slip risk. It wasn’t hard to guess who was wandering the hallways tonight. Sure, most staff put in significant amounts of overtime but even the most dedicated researcher (Emily Pope came to mind) had left the premises long ago, say, around eight. Not many people, beside himself, would stick around for so long they might as well grab a stretcher and sleep in one of the emergency shelters.  
He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word to announce he was there, entering Darling’s lab room. He did not need to, just as Darling did not need to turn around to see who it was. He stood a step behind him, looking at the whiteboard, to his right. A presence in the corner of his eye. Dressed in a dark suit as usual, looking like a shadow.

“There’s a causation hidden somewhere,” Zachariah Trench said.  
“There’s got to be.”  
“Interesting card you guys have here.”  
“It’s a pretty looking piece of paper. Bit crumpled up, but otherwise fine.”  
“I understand it has a habit of turning up everywhere.”  
“Yes.”

Dr. Darling did not move an inch when he felt Trench’s arms around him, slowly sliding under his arms, holding him from behind. That was his chin on his shoulder and his breath on his neck. That was how warm he was. In reality, this time. It was nothing like those times when he had visited him from far away, from a different plane of existence, or wherever he spent his time. Somewhere Darling could not hope to follow him. He did not have the authorization or necessary clearance. And he never would.  
He preferred it this way. Preferred Trench’s physical manifestation. He really was very warm. It was very comforting to feel his body against his back, to know he was right there, in the closest thing to reality known by the Bureau. Darling hadn’t realized how cold he had been, before.

“Emily is out of ideas.”  
“That’s unlike her.” Trench’s voice was deep, and its vibration, so nearby, seemed to make Darling’s ear buzz and tremble. Or maybe that was his own doing. “How about you?”  
“I have theories. All untested.”  
“Tomorrow is a new day’s work.”  
“Yes, you’re right.”

The Bureau hummed. It hummed all the time. The plumbing, the cables, the shifting walls and floors; it all contributed to it. Things spoke in dark corners, when they thought nobody would hear. Other things sang to themselves. The plants, the objects they studied. The caretaker.  
Darling and Trench listened to the building. Its music, its noise. Darling had his eyes closed, in exhausted relief. He moved his weight just a little, leaning against Trench just a little. He smelt of tobacco. Coffee. Cologne.

“Do you think it would respond to you?”  
Trench’s lips touched his neck as he spoke, contact so minimal Darling hardly felt it. It still made him shiver.  
“Me?”  
“Yes. Would it move if you were the one holding the magnetizing tool?”  
Why did he have to hurt him? Wasn’t it enough to have power over him, to keep him in his grasp? He already knew the answer. He knew better than anyone. Instinctively, or because of what the Board whispered in his ear, it didn’t matter: he knew everything about everyone and he knew everything about Darling. So why interrogate him like this? Why force him to say what he already knew?  
“You already know.”  
“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”  
Darling grimaced. “Yes. It would show increased activity.”  
“What makes you think so?”  
Darling turned around in Trench’s arms and pushed his palms to his shoulders. It was a half-assed attempt at pushing him away. Darling knew he couldn’t push Trench away. He may not look it but he was much stronger than most people, and he was definitely stronger than Darling.  
“Stop it.”  
Trench smiled as he pulled him closer. “Okay.”

Dr. Darling was powerless against Trench. This was not news. It had been this way from the beginning. Their power balance had been understood by the both of them, instantly, even back when their respective ranks did not reflect it. Both feeling simultaneously content and dissatisfied with the differences between them, they had spent years circling around each other like territorial birds. Testing the waters. Running preliminary trials.  
The hypothesis had proven to be correct- what else?  
Darling had launched an attack, Trench had caught it. Effortlessly. Their stalemate from back then was still in place now. Darling wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Zachariah,” he said.  
“Casper.”  
“Did we ever… Did I ever spend the night at your place?”  
“Many times.” Trench’s fingers moved through his hair, slowly. As if he was deep in thought. “We always went to my place. When it was safe.”  
“Because I… I don’t remember any details.” Darling laughed apologetically, knowing how insane he sounded. “I think I’ve been on the inside of the Bureau too long.”  
“That could very well be true.”  
“I think we need to get out.”  
“Hm-hm.”  
“Well?”  
“Well?” Trench copied.  
Darling moved back from him and looked him in his eyes. “Shall we go?”  
The eyes looking back at him were even more tired than his own. Overshadowed, dark. Like a cloud that never leaves but just hangs in the sky all day, obscuring the sun from early dawn to nightfall. His glasses reflected a portion of the light from the halogen lamps, but could not hide that the eyes behind them spoke of things no living soul knew of, that those eyes had seen things Dr. Darling could not even dream about, let alone other people, out there, on the street. If there still were other people around. If there still was such a thing as a ‘street’, as ‘outside’. He had been in these rooms for so long even the concept of the world outside seemed distant and unknown.  
“Take me out of here.”  
Trench looked at him, a vague smile on his face. “They told me you would ask me this one day.”  
“Oh, did they?”  
“You know I can’t leave.”  
“When _can_ you leave?”  
Trench shook his head. He was still smiling and for some reason, that alarmed Darling far more than impatience or anger would have done.  
“So, what? You are okay with them just… keeping you hostage?”  
When there was no answer, Darling pushed on. “Do they realize it’s not just you they’re imprisoning here?”  
“Casper,” Trench said. The tone of his voice immediately shut Darling up. He didn’t know how he managed to do it. It worked every time.  
“Come with me. To my office.” He stroked his hands, lingering on them, in thought, before grabbing them. “Keep me company. Please. I can’t be alone tonight.”  
“I don’t want to go to your office. Not again.”  
“I’m afraid we have no other choice.”  
It was plain to hear; Trench’s words were not to be argued against. Dr. Darling lost his defiance like a balloon losing its air. He laid his forehead to Trench’s chest. The soft fabric of his suit felt like an expensive cushion.  
“I’m sorry,” his director said, stroking his cheek, absent-mindedly. “You know I am.”  
  
***

How much easier would his life be, Dr. Darling pondered, if he could be that cigarette between his director’s index and middle finger? A short life. Dedicated to his pleasure. Bad for him, yes, but his contribution would be nothing in the sea of his smoked comrades, heaped together in his ashtray. Being picked from a carton for a minute or two’s worth of relief, of comfort. To die gradually, burn up bit by bit, stuck between his lips. Yeah. He’d prefer it.

Trench’s other hand was cold. It rested on the bare skin of Darling’s back. Casually, nonchalant: something he had done so many times before it didn’t faze him anymore. A meaningless gesture, to someone who didn’t know him. Darling knew better.  
He did not complain. Not much. He could understand the unique circumstances his director was entangled in, and he could appreciate what he could give him, in spite of those circumstances. It wasn’t hard to see that every hour they spent together cost him, had repercussions. He had hoped that time would make things better, or at least easier to bear. He was still waiting for the day when he wouldn’t mind anymore. Would no longer mind that his director would never be truly his.  
Even at a time like this, lying in his arms on the big couch in his private meeting room, adjacent to his huge executive office; his head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, so close to him, it hurt. It made every minute he spent with him painful, tainted. It would never be enough, he thought. He realized it was true and felt a deep existential panic creep up on him.  
“Zachariah,” he quickly said, looking for distraction.  
“Casper.”  
“When did we first do this?”  
“Still trying to reach your memory?”  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
Zachariah exhaled, staring at the wooden ceiling. Cigarette smoke slowly twirled upward, merging with the blue cloud floating above them.  
“Nine years ago. It was December, I think. The Bureau was deserted that night.”  
Paining his brain, Darling tried to remember the time and place. Yes, he recalled darkness, an evening that had come early. Streetlights behind the glass.  
“You came to me.”  
Darling looked up to find Trench smiling at him.  
“Were you surprised?”  
“Hm. Yes and no.” He took a drag of his cigarette. Darling guessed he would light another once this one was finished. “You had been following me around. And I had noticed that you were different.” He shook his head, like an old man shakes his head at youthful foolishness. “But so was I.”  
Darling remembered. Shards, fragments. He closed his eyes.  
“I thought that you would be intimidated. By my new position. By the implications of my new position. Most people are. I would have understood if you had wanted to keep your distance. But you didn’t… not at all.”  
Darling remembered more. It came back to him, aided by Trench’s words, his gentle voice. By the sharp smell of his brand of cigarettes, and the softer scent of his skin, his hair, his neck. No, he had _not_ kept his distance. He had done that long enough. Being in his presence had become unbearable.  
  
He had been running tests on him the weeks prior. It had been a strange experience to investigate his own boss. A conflict of interest waiting to happen. The problem was that there was no other research team in the world who could do what his team could. They were the only people on earth sufficiently authorized and in the know to do that job. When he walked through the large hallway leading to Trench’s office that night, he had been measuring his responses to various stimuli for days on end. They had been long days, too. Endless lists of data flowed from his pen. He spent hours typing up reports, commentary on how remarkable the subject’s performance was. How powerful he was. How quickly he learned, how quickly he grew comfortable with his abilities. He wasn’t hungry for them like Northmoor had been. The paranormal clung to him and enhanced him, choosing him, clearly and explicitly. And he wore it like a well-fitted jacket. Carried it like he carried his own limbs. It was all natural to him. It was like looking at evolution in real time, and Dr. Darling couldn’t look away.  
  
That December evening, his hesitations had been overpowered by his growing affection for the first time. The moment it happened, it was completely irrevocable- but he hadn’t known that at the time.  
Trench had stood there, by the window- he saw it as clearly as he could see him here, right now. An empty glass, which had probably once contained whisky, on the desk. A full ashtray next to it.  
He had called him ‘director’, and Trench had called him ‘doctor’. Those days felt like eons ago. He had conjured up some excuse to disturb him; a bunch of papers, a file folder in his arms.  
“You came to my office. I asked you what you wanted. You showed me.”  
Darling felt the blood rush to his head when the memory returned to him, in full.  
  
_Your signature, director.  
_He had really needed that signature. It wasn’t all an act. If he was completely honest, it could have waited another day, maybe until Monday.  
  
“Was it a Thursday?”  
“It was.”  
  
He had carried the files over to Trench. If it had been anybody else, he would have laid them there, would have waited on the opposite side of the desk. It was more desperation than cunning, more mindless attraction than a conscious plan. He walked over to his boss and stood next to him.  
_These are the files on the research department’s new requested purchases. I’ll need your authorization, especially on item numbers six to eight._  
Trench leaned over to have a look, entering Darling’s aura. Darling didn’t even believe in auras and yet, he could feel it when it happened. Trench felt it, too. It was noticeable: he paused, he wasn’t reading. Darling heard his breathing, mixed with his own. Trench’s hand reached out to the stack of papers Darling was holding. He grabbed it, his hand trembling just a little.  
He wanted to say something. Darling waited. Nothing happened.  
Nothing had happened yet. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away. There was nothing between them. Darling was seeing things that weren’t there. That is what he told himself, those quiet moments. Trench pulled the papers out of Darling’s hand and laid them on his desk. With a very small, almost unnoticeable movement, he moved closer to Darling until they were shoulder to shoulder.  
_This still means nothing_ , Darling thought. Trench laid his arm around his shoulders and turned him around. _It means nothing_ , Darling thought. Their foreheads touched, gently. Trench was careful. Could this, in all rationality, still be explained as simple friendliness? A hunger for a bit of human contact in a lonely, lonely man? Darling told himself that it could in spite of knowing better. Maybe he was getting nervous, now that he realized it was going to happen, was really about to happen. Trench was strong. He was powerful, frighteningly so. He had been his close colleague once, but he was now his boss, and above all, he was the CEO of the Bureau of Control. He was involved in matters no other living souls were ever initiated into. Darling was a specialist in those same things, sure. But studying them and living them were not the same. Maybe he wouldn’t be up for it. Maybe this was all a mistake.  
  
***

“It was just what I needed,” Trench mused, lighting his second cigarette exactly like Darling had predicted. “You brought me back down to earth, in a way.”  
“That’s too much credit.”  
“You underestimate yourself.”  
  
***  
  
It was too late to stop. Far too late.  
If they had wanted to avoid this, they shouldn’t have gotten themselves in this position in the first place. Darling shouldn’t have gone to Trench’s office that night, or any other night. He should have left the Bureau around six, should have gone home, should never have been alone with him to begin with. It was too late. Even before he moved in and pressed his lips on his, he knew neither of them would be able to stop what had been set in motion. It was obvious from the way Trench looked at him. Even before his director kissed him back, grabbing his arms, his face, his hair; he knew neither of them would want to let the other go. It would take a while before that would happen. As it turned out, it took them that entire night and a good chunk of the next day. And maybe a small part of both of them had known that it would take another nine years after that. At least.  
It was like something that had been simmering below the surface for a very long time was finally finding its way out. Darling was dizzy, the room was spinning. Trench was everywhere. He didn’t say much. He took control, with the natural authority bestowed on him by the Board, divine intervention, a lucky star sign, or whatever it was. He closed the office doors. He pushed Darling into a private meeting room with a big couch, meant for guests who never came; a room he had never set foot in before, a room he hadn’t even known was there. He kissed him on that couch. He undressed him, partially on the couch and partially on the floor. He kissed him on the floor. He kissed him, everywhere.  
He wasn’t rough- he never was. He was intense, but never rough.  
Dr. Darling had watched him fling blocks of concrete through a room, catch falling passenger cars with his bare hands. This man could lift trucks and bend metal. He could break him in two, if he wanted to. But he was as careful and tender with Darling as a historian with a priceless artefact, or a specialist restoring a centuries-old oil painting.  
_Wait_ , he said, when they were in a very compromising position, locked in each other’s arms. He reached out and took Darling’s glasses off and set them on the coffee table next to the couch. Then, his own, next to Darling’s.  
  
***  
  
“You went straight for your goal. Nothing would have stopped you.”  
Trench looked him in his eyes. It made Darling feel small.  
“Nah, I was super scared. You made my knees shake whenever I saw you. Like a new secretary fresh out of college.”  
“Bullshit. Take it from me. You’re relentless. And it’s attractive as all hell.”  
  
***  
  
He was right.  
From the first time, Darling’s mind had been made up. Nothing had been able to change it. No one else had ever come along to distract him from Zachariah. He had never grown tired of him, despite the difficult, conflicting schedules and his director’s complete inability to plan anything- date nights, anniversaries, birthdays. There had been arguments and some had been bad, but never bad enough to make Darling break it off. For a few months, after he had first learned about the Board and what they did, what they whispered to his man when he wasn’t with him, he had believed it had all been a big set-up. A conspiracy against him, using him as a pawn, playing with his weaknesses. In the end, Trench had convinced him that the Board had nothing to do with it. He believed him. He was reassured. Later, he had worried everyone in the office knew what was going on. He had overheard some coworkers asking where Dr. Darling was. “In the director’s office, probably”, one of them had said. Hushed, secretive; aware that they could get in trouble for saying it. But the rest had accepted it without questions. “Oh, definitely. They’re usually together...”  
  
_Of course they know_ , Trench had said. _I would say it is hard to miss._  
_But we have been careful_.  
_We have. We have been discreet. But this kind of thing is far too big to hide.  
_  
And here they were, all those years later. They had passed, by them and through them. Dr. Darling didn’t mind getting older, didn’t mind his director getting older. Grey hair suited him. He adored every single one of them, as they gradually lost their color and succumbed to their natural endpoint. He knew it was silly.  
  
***  
  
“Do you remember now?”  
“I do. I don’t know what happened.”  
“No worries. It happens. The House eats memories, sometimes.”  
Trench stroked his hair. Darling moved towards his hand, like a cat looking for more attention.  
“I wish we could go back to your place.”  
Visions of his downtown apartment flashed before his eyes. Bookshelves as high as the ceiling. Old fashioned wood paneling in the hallway. Classical furniture. Archetypes, just like the stuff inside the Bureau’s walls. Dark. It was always dark when they were there together.  
“Why?” Trench chuckled. “I fuck you better when we’re over there?”  
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”  
“Sure. I miss it, too.”  
“Go tell your Board that they need to let you go,” Darling muttered, softly stroking his director’s chest. “The next time you see them.”  
Trench just laughed. Pretended he didn’t know how serious his head of research was. His head of research, who wanted to be his head of research, his partner, his friend, his confidante, until the end. Whatever he needed to be. As long as he was his.  
“Tell them that you’re needed elsewhere.”  
“Come here.”  
Zachariah kissed Casper, his left hand in his neck and his right arm tightly around him. They stayed together until the morning.

“This could be the last time.”  
Casper frowned and checked if he could tell whether or not Trench was serious. His expression was the same as before: relaxed, blissful. Happy. _Because he’s with me_ , Darling realized.  
“You always say that.”  
“I know, I know. But it could be true, this time.”  
There was no arguing with that.  
  


Monday, the 5th of October, 2020  
20:17

**Author's Note:**

> At the time of writing this little drabble I have seen about 20% of Control's storyline. I enjoy this state of mind, when everything is still open and possible. And if I get to choose I would want these two to have an affair spanning almost a decade. I hope you enjoyed my wish fulfillment!  
> My heartbeat is off the chain, man...  
> I hope to continue the game soon and get some inspiration. I might write more about them.


End file.
